


The Prototype

by baroque_mongoose



Category: Girl Genius
Genre: Gen, Mild Language, Musical Instruments, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-28
Updated: 2014-11-28
Packaged: 2018-02-27 07:42:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2684783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baroque_mongoose/pseuds/baroque_mongoose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Poor Boris.  As if he hadn't already had enough to contend with in his eventful life, he's just been given the most embarrassing and nerve-wracking piece of office equipment on the planet, and he has no diplomatic way of getting rid of it.</p><p>But there is always a way round, if you look hard enough...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Prototype

“The problem is,” said Boris Dolokhov, “I am in an extremely embarrassing position.”

I could see that. If there is one person I know who is more easily embarrassed than I am, albeit usually for different reasons, it is Boris. He was not quite fidgeting, but he was certainly twitching a little, and although we do get on remarkably well these days considering the previous history between us, he still gave the impression that it had been all he could do to invite me in to discuss the matter.

“Say on, old chap,” I replied, “and I shall see what I can do to help.”

“Well, it's... it's... _this.”_ He waved one of his right hands helplessly across his desk; he was holding a cup of coffee in the other, while adjusting his spectacles and tapping a pencil on the desk with the remaining hands.

“The... er...” I took an inspired guess. “Typewriting machine?”

“Well done,” said Boris. “I personally prefer to call it the monstrosity, but naturally not where the Baron or his son can hear me. Yes, it is a typewriting machine.”

“It is a trifle rococo in its execution,” I admitted.

Boris rolled his eyes. “Ever the British penchant for understatement,” he said dourly.

“I suppose it's one of Aristide's?” I asked.

“Precisely,” said Boris. “And therein lies my problem.”

I sympathised. Gil's son Aristide had finally, and a little belatedly, broken out as a spark, though all the signs to date were that he was not an especially strong one. This was a disappointment, but not a great surprise, to Gil; after all, his mother had not been a spark. However, he certainly did have his own style, and it tended strongly towards the ornate. If Aristide had heard of the expression “less is more”, he was not having anything to do with it. Aristide's first clank might have moved with all the grace of a thrown brick, but it had had six legs, eight revolving arms and more jewelled detail than a Fabergé egg.

“I see,” I said. “So Aristide built this for you, and you don't like it, but you don't feel you can say so.”

Boris quivered. “Don't like it? I hate the sight of the damned thing. My heart sinks every time I walk into my office and see it sitting there on my desk, looking at me... aaargh!”

The typewriting machine had suddenly started playing the _Song of the Volga Boatmen_. I was quite sure that Aristide had meant that kindly, but, nonetheless, I could well understand why it would make anyone yelp.

“I am retiring in just over six months,” said Boris, brokenly. “Donatella will be taking over. It didn't seem very long... until I was presented with this horror. Now, it will be six months of utter torture.”

“Does it... have any other surprises?” I asked carefully.

“Oh, yes.” He buried his face in two of his hands. “Ardsley. I am appealing to you as a diplomat and a gentleman... help me do something about this before I lose my mind.”

“I will certainly do whatever I can,” I assured him. “A pity; if it weren't for, shall we say, the diplomatic angle, I'd be happy to have it down at the embassy. I've been thinking about getting a typewriting machine for a little while. Naturally I have a very competent secretarial and administrative staff, but I still do quite a lot of writing in longhand, and I understand that these machines make that a lot quicker once you know how to use them.”

Boris stared at me. “You'd really give house room to... that?!”

“It's all a matter of perspective, Boris,” I explained. “When you've recently been in Castle Heterodyne, a device like that seems quite tame by comparison.”

“Well, there is that,” he admitted, “but don't you think it's hideous?”

“Oh, it's perfectly ghastly from an aesthetic point of view, but as long as it does the job...”

“You haven't seen what else it does,” said Boris, sepulchrally.

“I think I can cope with the occasional unexpected Russian folk song,” I said.

Boris gave me a look that was about halfway between pitying and martyred, took out a piece of typing paper, and inserted it into the machine. “Watch the paper clip,” he instructed.

“The paper clip?”

“Yes. Here.” He pointed to a small protruberance at the top right of the machine. It did, now he mentioned it, look like a paper clip, except that it had a large pair of eyes attached to it and it appeared to be grinning manically.

Boris began to type. After a few words, the paper clip whirred, buzzed, swivelled, and produced a small piece of pasteboard from somewhere inside the machine. On it, in tiny neat letters, was written the legend: “It looks like you're trying to write a letter. Do you need any help?”

“Oh,” I said. “What happens if you tell it you do?”

“It goes on to produce further idiotic pieces of pasteboard. I have been working for the Baron and his father before him for over thirty years. I do not need an inanely grinning paper clip to tell me how to write a letter.”

“Can you shut it off?” I asked.

“If so, I haven't found out how yet,” replied Boris grimly. “I did consider taking the pliers to it. Usually I just tell it to get wound.”

“And does it?”

“Yes. But never for very long.”

“H'mm,” I said. “Yes. I think... I think after all I shall perhaps just buy an ordinary typewriting machine. But that still leaves the matter of what to do with yours.”

“If we were sparks, we could at least modify it to remove the most unhelpful features,” said Boris. “Mind you... I know you're not a spark, but you do know something about science, don't you?”

“Yes, I do, but I wouldn't want to try modifying a spark device,” I replied. “However, you do give me an idea. If we could just get hold of another spark...”

“Good idea in theory, but who?” said Boris. “The Baron's obviously out of the question, most of the others are too far away, and the Storm King... well, he's the nearest, but we'd never get him on board without the Baron knowing about it, and he's not exactly to be trusted.”

“No,” I agreed, “but I will admit I rather like him. He's clever and stylish, and he has a sense of humour, even if he is, as Gil says, a weasel. And I think he'd do it if we could sell it to him as putting one over on Gil and his son.”

“He'd never take that from you, though,” Boris pointed out. “You'd take a bullet for the Baron if you had to. Everyone knows that, even though your first loyalty is still to England.”

The typewriting machine, apparently bored because it was not in use at the moment, struck up with _Song of the Volga Boatmen_ again. “Aaargh!” said Boris.

“At least tell me it also does something constructive like making you cups of coffee?” I said.

Boris laughed bitterly. “That would be a fine thing. No.”

I sighed. “You're right. I couldn't talk to Tarvek, and nor could you, for exactly the same reason.”

“I suppose,” said Boris thoughtfully, “we don't actually have to go to Tarvek and ask him. We are diplomats, after all.”

“Ah, the indirect approach,” I said. “Yes, I was starting to think along those lines myself. If we could get Gil to invite Tarvek on board and then, shall we say, expose him to this machine... well, there is always the possibility that he'll want to tinker with it anyway.”

“There is, but we can't bank on it,” Boris pointed out. “I mean... he may just look at it and laugh.”

“Unfortunately, you are quite right,” I admitted.

“Maybe I could arrange for someone to steal the damn thing?” Boris suggested.

“I wondered about that, but Aristide might then want to build you another,” I said.

“We're getting nowhere,” said Boris heavily. “And if it isn't out of my office, or at the very least neutralised, soon, I am going to have a nervous breakdown. I know it.”

“Leave it with me, Boris,” I said. “After all these years of faithful service to the Wulfenbachs, you do not deserve a situation like this. I shall do my level best to extricate you.”

He managed half a smile. “Well... you've got me out of worse in your time, I'll give you that.”

I was very thoughtful as I flew back down to the Embassy. If it had been anyone other than Aristide involved, I should just have told Gil and things would have been easily resolved; but Gil had spent so long worrying in case his son did not turn out to be a spark after all that he had become extremely sensitive in that one direction. Normally, I knew I could say anything to him, because he in turn knew that I would not say anything that might annoy him unless I had a very good reason. But not even I was on safe ground criticising anything Aristide had invented in front of Gil. Only one person was allowed to do that, and that was Gil himself.

And then I remembered Mr Nightingale.

Mr Nightingale, if you recall, is an exceptionally fine English tenor who spent some time, along with his family, on Castle Wulfenbach in order to give singing lessons to Aristide. While he was there, he also taught both Maxim and myself, Maxim having been with Gil on secondment for a few months at the time. Not only is he an outstanding singer, but he also has absolute pitch to a level that astonishes even most other musicians, and they frequently call upon him to help tune their instruments. He can tune to standard pitch, baroque pitch, or any of several dozen obscure mediaeval micro-tunings. The man is quite _sui generis_ , and most charming and polite with it; and, most importantly of all, he happened to be in town at the moment. He very often is, these days, as he made himself very popular with the organisers of the local music festival while he was staying on Castle Wulfenbach, and they are always inviting him back.

So I went to find him, which proved not to be a difficult task. He was staying at one of the local inns, and when I located him he was flat on his back underneath their harpsichord, studying its construction with avid interest.

“Ah, my lord!” he exclaimed. “Do come and look at this. It's fascinating. This instrument was specifically built to cope with being moved around a lot, so in order to provide strength without a lot of additional weight, there's a very complicated and rather beautiful arrangement of struts.”

There is a very good reason these days why I am not inclined to get down on the floor in public places, and it has nothing to do with dignity. “I'm not sure I could manage that,” I replied, “but if you wouldn't mind tearing yourself away from it for a few moments, I should like to talk to you.”

“Certainly, my lord.” He slid out from under the harpsichord and straightened up, beaming. His remaining hair stuck out in all directions around his bald dome, giving him the air of a benevolent and rather unkempt monk.

“Thank you, Mr Nightingale,” I said. “I appreciate that, and I assure you I would not have interrupted your contemplation of a beautiful harpsichord without good reason. Now, you may or may not be aware that Aristide Wulfenbach proved to have the Spark.”

“Yes, I had heard something to that effect. How is he doing? I should like to see him again, if that's possible. He was a good pupil.”

“I'm sure that can be arranged,” I said. “But, at the moment, I would rather like you to come and see one of his machines. It... wasn't primarily designed as a musical instrument, but since it does have a musical element and even I can hear that it is not particularly well tuned, I thought perhaps...” I paused. “With discretion, naturally.”

“Oh, of course!” Mr Nightingale beamed. “Not a problem at all, my lord. I'd be only too happy to come and have a look at it.”

“The construction is a little odd,” I warned him. “It is, after all, an early spark device. You may need some tools to get into it.”

“I have some,” he replied. “One moment. I'll just go and fetch them.”

He bustled off upstairs somewhere, and returned with a very battered Gladstone bag. “When you say it isn't primarily a musical instrument, my lord,” he asked, “what exactly is its main function?”

“Actually, a typewriting machine,” I confessed. “But I'm afraid Aristide really didn't know when to stop.”

“Ah... yes... I'm afraid that does sound rather like Aristide,” he said. On anyone else, his expression would have been classed as a frown, but he had such an eternally good-natured face that he merely looked contemplative and a little rueful.

“He made it for his father's chief administrator, Boris Dolokhov,” I explained. “Consequently, it plays the _Song of the Volga Boatmen_. I'm sure that was intended as a kindly gesture, but since it does it both unpredictably and not quite in tune, I fear Boris is finding it stressful.”

“Ah! Well, I can certainly help to reduce Herr Dolokhov's stress level,” said Mr Nightingale. “First of all I shall tune it for him, and then I shall find out how it is controlled so that he can play it only when he wishes. And... there may well be a few other improvements I can think of, when I see it,” he continued, ruminatively. “Yes. What sort of music does Herr Dolokhov like?”

“I know his favourite composer is Tchaikovsky,” I replied.

“He wrote a great deal of splendid music,” said Mr Nightingale enthusiastically. “Does Herr Dolokhov have any scores?”

“I'm not sure,” I admitted. “If so, I don't think he keeps them in his office. But you could ask.”

I brought him up to Castle Wulfenbach in my flyer. I am there so often that nobody takes any notice of me, and, of course, Mr Nightingale was also well known, so no questions were asked. I had been counting on that, as it is rather awkward to have to explain to the more unimaginative kind of security official that you have brought a musician in to tune someone's typewriting machine. A few minutes later, I was knocking on Boris' door.

“Come in,” he called.

We did. “Hallo, Ardsley,” he said. “And... er... Mr Nightingale, isn't it?”

“It is,” said that worthy. “Delighted to meet you, Herr Dolokhov.”

I shut the door. “Boris,” I said, “Mr Nightingale is here to tune your machine.”

“To... what?!”

“To tune it,” I repeated.

“I don't want it tuning, I want it throwing out of the window!” he exploded. “Do you have any idea what it's done now?”

“Boris. Trust me,” I said. “And please, also, trust Mr Nightingale. He is a genius with anything musical.”

“But it's not a music box, it's a...”

“Typewriting machine,” I finished. “Yes. But it has a musical element, and that is where Mr Nightingale comes into his own. Let him at it, Boris.”

“His lordship has told me it has been annoying you,” said Mr Nightingale, sympathetically. “I intend to do what I can about that.”

“Ah,” said Boris, somewhat mollified. “Yes. Well. Anything you can do...”

Right on cue, the wretched gadget started playing the _Song of the Volga Boatmen_. “Aaargh,” said Boris. Mr Nightingale did not quite join him, but the pained expression on his face spoke volumes.

“I think,” he said, in the nearest thing to a grim tone he could possibly manage, “that I had better have the cover off.”

“Shall we leave you to it?” I asked. “Boris, you usually take your lunch break around now, don't you? I'd be delighted to join you.”

Boris hesitated, but agreed after a moment; and so we departed for an excellent lunch, and returned about an hour later to see how Mr Nightingale was getting on. We found him covered in grease and dirt, with his hair sticking out at even more different angles than before, and looking so thoroughly happy and contented that I think we could have used him to light the office.

“Ah, gentlemen!” he exclaimed. “Thank you so much for letting me play around with this machine. I've had a most enjoyable time.”

“So what have you done, exactly?” asked Boris.

“Well, Herr Dolokhov,” he replied. “Naturally, the first thing I did was to tune it, as I said. Since his lordship said you are fond of Tchaikovsky, I've just tuned it to standard modern pitch, but if you should want to be able to vary it in future, do by all means let me know and I'll see what can be done about that. Baroque pitch is awfully useful, don't you know. Then... well, obviously, I could see you didn't want to keep hearing the same tune played at pseudo-random intervals, even if it was in tune, so I've taken out that mechanism altogether. You will never have to listen to the _Song of the Volga Boatmen_ again unless you play it yourself.”

“Well, that's a relief... hold on,” said Boris. “Unless I play it myself?”

“His lordship did ask me to tune the device,” said Mr Nightingale. “I therefore tuned it, as I said; but there is hardly any point in tuning something if you then stop it from making music altogether. Therefore, I have given you the ability to play whatever is to your taste. You can do this in one of two ways. If you have a mechanical copying device in your office which can create single sheets from a bound score, you can press a predetermined sequence of keys and then feed those sheets through the machine, and it will play whatever is on those sheets for you without further intervention. Of course, it will sound a little mechanical, because the machine is not sufficiently advanced to be able to interpret as a human musician would; but, still, it will play them. Or, alternatively, you can use the type keys.” He paused. “Please, do not alarm yourself, Herr Dolokhov. The machine will still type as before. The keys are simply now dual function.”

“Ingenious,” said Boris. “But how, exactly, do I switch the function from type keys to musical keys?”

“Ah, well, I co-opted that curious paper clip contrivance to do that,” said Mr Nightingale. “I discovered that it was merely a device to dispense rather clumsy hints which I was sure you did not need, and so I thought it could be much better employed as a function switcher. Just flick it with your thumb whenever you wish to change over. I've written down here what all the keys do in the various modes, and how to inform the machine that it is about to be fed a sheet of music.” He beamed.

“You... you... you co-opted the paper clip? Mr Nightingale, I cannot tell you how grateful I am,” said Boris. “But I had no idea you were a spark.”

Mr Nightingale's blue eyes went very wide. “A spark? Me? No, good heavens, whatever gave you that idea? I am quite useless with most machinery, I assure you – oh, apart from velocipedes, but since I get around everywhere on my velocipede I have had to become competent with those. No, I am simply a musician.”

“But you've just taken apart a spark device and reassembled it in a much more... socially acceptable... way!” Boris protested. “You _have_ to be a spark, even if you don't know it.”

“I don't think he is,” I said. “Boris, I know Mr Nightingale a lot better than you do, don't forget. I've seen him in action before, and that's why I brought him here. If a thing has anything musical about it, he can tune it and he can improve it. But it is only music.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Mr Nightingale. “I would have no idea how to make it a better typewriting machine. But as far as the music goes, I simply tinker until it sounds right.”

“Well,” said Boris. “And... how _does_ it sound?”

Mr Nightingale smiled beatifically, positioned himself in front of the machine, flicked the infernal paper clip firmly with his thumb, and started playing a Bach toccata. It sounded wonderful.

“It would, naturally, sound better in baroque pitch,” he explained, a little apologetically, “but that's the test piece I normally trot out from memory, don't you know. I'm not much of a keyboard player at all – I'm a singer first and foremost.”

“Mr Nightingale,” said Boris, “you have made me a very happy man. Is there anything I can do for you at all?”

Mr Nightingale considered this. “Well, it's very kind of you to offer, Herr Dolokhov, but not really. I mean, unless you could consider running to a new rear tyre?”

“Sweet lightning, man, you can have all the free velocipede tyres you want whenever you're here,” said Boris. “I'll arrange it at whichever shop you prefer. You've saved me a nervous breakdown.”

I heard a familiar set of footsteps outside. _“Cave,”_ I said. “It's Gil.”

“Ah,” said Mr Nightingale. “And... you wanted me to be discreet?”

“Yes. He's very sensitive about Aristide's inventions.”

And that was why, the moment Gil walked into Boris' office, Mr Nightingale immediately started playing the _Song of the Volga Boatmen_. But that was understandable in the circumstances, and nobody ever played it on that machine again.


End file.
